Ruby Red Smile
by Araceil
Summary: He would remember the Halloween Massacre for many years to come. And then he would do something about it. LV/HP, violence, dubcon, non-graphic, timetravel, Azkaban. Fun stuff.


The Halloween Massacre of his fourth year would haunt his dreams for years to come.

Not because of the ridiculous ease that the mysterious wizard who entered the Great Hall tore through students and Professors like wet tissue paper. Or because of the sheer brutality of it all – though he had awoken often with a... problem, that needed some personal attention in the privacy of his bed-hangings, or shower cubicle.

No, it was the smile.

Through the bloody chaos of the Great Hall, through the screaming children and panicking Professors and the flying spells and splinted wood and crumbling rubble.

Green eyes slid through the chaos, as if in slow motion to land on him, recognition and something soft filled those eyes. Those eyes the same colour of his favourite curse, set within a face that would have made angels weep.

And a smile.

Soft, loving, pure.

Red lips curving in joy.

Dead eyes the colour of his favourite Curse.

Before he was lunging toward him, that same joyful innocent smile alighting his face.

If it hadn't been for the blade in his hand, he would have thought the boy attempting to hug him.

He gutted the Gryffindor who put herself between them, attempting to shield her fellow Head Prefect.

The boy with the green eyes didn't even look at her as he passed, streaming blood as he seemed to just... flicker... into his personal space. Close enough to touch.

Close enough to smell.

Of all the things to remember about that day, his face stood out the most.

Red lips, swollen with chapped skin from being chewed on, pale skin with a smattering of freckles here and there, just as pale and impossible to see unless you were close. Long eye-lashes. Avada green eyes. And a smile of tender love and affection – even as a blade pierced his skin.

And then Dumbledore was there.

And despite the bleeding slash just below his belly button, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the battle that took place afterwards.

And then the Aurors burst in through the doors.

And his boy with the green eyes was taken away.

_**000**_

The papers spoke of nothing else for the resulting months.

How his boy did not speak a single word even under the influence of powerful Truth Serums, under Compulsion charms, even under the _Imperio_.

He just smiled.

The papers dubbed him the Smiling Butcher.

He was sentenced to life in Azkaban.

Where he languishes even now, twenty years after the fact.

A fact that was soon to change, he decided, lifting himself from his throne, thoughts idling on his boy with the green eyes.

The scar on his belly itched.

_**000**_

The cell was dank, and filthy, a slime of rot and decay slicking the dark stone floor as he casually ripped the cell door – and the barred wall along with it – out using his wand, crumpling the metal into a misshapen ball of iron with a flick of the Yew swatch in hand.

His boy.

Against the far wall, his hands chained above his head, perched upon a thin rotting wooden shelf on a damp, mouldering straw stuffed mattress, infested with lice and bed-bugs, wearing ancient, stained and thread-bare prison robes, was his boy.

His eyes shut.

His skin waxy and pale, gaunt with starvation, his hair long and wild, hanging around his face in a matted curtain of filth that caressed his pale cheeks with tendrils of blackest night.

His red lips, bloodless, and white.

He stepped forward to unlock those shackles, and green eyes snapped open, staring sightlessly in distant confusion at the stone floor before...

They lifted, and cleared, and sparked in recognition.

Just like in the Great Hall.

And he smiled.

Tender, warm, and full of love.

And suddenly, he cared nothing for the filthy surroundings.

The bench was scorgified, the mattress vanished, his foul clothing along with it.

He grabbed those thin ankles and pulled, pressing himself between his legs, against his hips, against his emaciated fragile body and he kissed him.

He devoured those white, bloodless, red lips. Pulled away before sharp teeth could dig into him.

He bit into the tender, paper-delicate skin of his neck, listening to the gasp, feeling the shudder of his body and the taste of his blood. Sweet. Like poison.

Teeth sliced through his ear and he yanked himself away with a grunt of pain, slapping his smiling boy across the cheek. Those wet, ruby red lips, stained with his blood now threading down his chin.

Dull green eyes glinted in satisfaction as he felt a hot crimson ribbon of blood run down the side of his neck.

"My Lord!"

He turned, pinning the impetuous cretin who interrupted him with a glare to strip flesh from bone.

His ugly, bulbous features blanched, blotchy and _human_, with fear.

"We await your leisure, my Lord," he mumbled and withdrew with a desperate bow, footsteps diminishing down the corridor before he turned his attention back to his boy – who was no longer a boy, despite the delicacy of his tiny body.

His boy whined, throwing his head back against the stone ball behind him, eyes bright and desperately fixed upon the grimy corner of the cell as he rolled his hips forward, rubbing and availing himself upon the pliant bony form beneath him. The smile was gone from those ruby lips, now open in soft desperation.

Robes were thrown aside in greedy impatience, pale skin quivering with chill, and anticipation.

He cried out, green eyes widening, his head coming forward as his voice, unheard, rang through the putrid air, a song only for his ears as he seated himself within his boy, to the brim.

His boy's voice rang through the corridors, the sound of his shackles banging against the wall, the creak of his wooden bench, and the thunderclap of flesh against flesh in the dirty dank cell as the Smiling Butcher was claimed by the Dark Lord Voldemort.

As magic, long forgotten and disused, roared to life, melded, merged, bonded, with the Dark Lord.

The walls trembled.

And a scream of absolution split the air.

_**000**_

"It would be our honour, if you would Bless our child, my Lords," the woman intoned respectfully, her green eyes shining with respect and admiration as she smiled up at them, her face tired but glowing with humble accomplishment, her arms filled with blankets. At her side, the proud father, her husband, a man whose face was soft with love and pride, dark eyes watching his love.

"It would be my pleasure, Lady Prince," the Dark Lord said, lips curved in a mockery of a polite smile.

In his lap, a boy with green eyes and a warm smile watched as his Mother, his most Hatred Professor, and a younger Sister that had never existed were Blessed under familial magics of Love and Protection.

And the arm about his waist tightened.

He wondered if...

_**000**_

**A little thing that wanted to be written. /Shrug**

**It won't be continued.**


End file.
